


Muscle Memory

by C_aura (Coragyps)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam Winchester, Dom/sub, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Light Bondage, M/M, Memory Alteration, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Submissive Sam, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/C_aura
Summary: That awkward moment when you realize that the man who brought you to your knees was actually your older brother all along.





	Muscle Memory

Dean hadn't met Sam's eyes once since it happened.

Neither of them said much as they drove down the highway. Sam didn’t know how to begin, and he figured Dean was in the same boat.

Sam shifted on the seat. His ass was tender and it made it hard to sit still. Even though Dean – Dean _Smith_ \- had been so careful with him, opened him up slowly, used so much lube that when he moved just right Sam could still feel a little dribble out.

It didn't mean anything, obviously. It wasn’t _them_. It was Dean Smith and Sam Wesson, two ... very different guys. 

The worst part was, there hadn’t been a curse or a spell. He was pretty sure the angels weren’t that freaking fucked up. It was probably something like djin magic; it hadn’t dictated all the details, just left their subconscious minds to fill in the gaps for themselves.

So Dean Smith had just liked Sam Wesson’s ass, and Sam had thought Dean was handsome and sexy as fuck, and they’d just honestly gone for it all of their own initiative.

What did that say about them? Why hadn’t they just _known_ , from muscle memory, that they were blood relatives? Shouldn’t it have just felt instinctively wrong?

And now he couldn't forget how it felt, to be put on his knees, to be spread out and taken. Dean's whiskey-rough voice whispering filth into his ears.

 _Take your pants off for me_ , Dean had said. _No, no, don’t cover yourself up, pretty boy, I want to see. That's it, real nice, just like that. Now, d_ _own on your knees. Come on over here. Let's get that pretty mouth filled up._

If somebody tied Sam _Winchester’s_ hands behind his back, he’s do his best to kick their freaking ass, not – not go all quiet and melty like that. Not nod quietly when Dean asked if he was feeling good, not get on his knees and lick his brother's cock like it was melting ice cream on a hot day.

Sam Winchester’s body didn’t even know how to do those things.

But he’d humbly opened his mouth, he’d let Dean cup his cheek and stroke his hair, coaxing and soothing him. He’d let Dean fuck his throat. And he’d _loved_ it. He’d almost choked himself on Dean’s dick as he came, he was so eager to swallow it all down. He deliberately kept some back so he could really taste it.

God, he had taken his brother’s dick – had moaned and drooled and sobbed and _taken it!_

Sam shifted in his seat again. Next to him, Dean sighed.

"I give up. What do you say we stop for the night?" asked Dean. "I'm beat anyway."

The casual tone felt like being socked in the gut. Sam wasn't sure what was worse, the thought that his brother was probably disgusted by him now (it was Sam Wesson, after all, who had made the first move, back there in the elevator at Sandover Bridge and Iron works) - or that Dean might be over there blaming himself for all of it. And he knew his brother well enough to suspect which way he'd fall on that one.

_Such a shy boy, aren't you baby?_

Dean had pulled his underwear down, rubbing Sam’s sides like a fidgety horse. Sam could remember his own soft whines while Dean touched him there, cupping his cheeks, squeezing, then guiding him down to the bed, his legs open, wrists bound with his own leather belt, face pressed down into Dean Smith’s expensive pillows.

 _Yeah, you like that, don't you. Spread your legs_ _nice and wide_ _for me,_ _baby, show me what you've got back here. T_ _hat’s it, that’s right, just like that. This is mine now, isn’t it. You ever had a cock up here before, hmm? No? You want my finger? Ask me pretty, baby. I can give it to you._

"Sam? You hear me?"

"Sure," said Sam. "Sure, sounds good."

_Let’s get that ass opened up, sweetheart. Get you all slick and wet like a girl, see if you can swallow down this big nasty dick, huh? I bet you can._

Finally he had spread over Sam’s back like a blanket – the height difference was mostly in the leg, it turned out – working his cock slowly into Sam’s clenching, grasping hole. He had taken his time shushing and soothing him, as tenderly as a mother (and that thought made a lot more sense now that Sam could remember Dean had literally raised him, although it didn’t make it less weird).

_That’s my good boy. Giving it to me so pretty, aren’t you._

Was that how his brother really was in the bedroom? Sam had unfortunately seen Dean _in flagrante delico_ more than once, and it always seemed raunchy and fun – he’d never seen that cool, domineering appraisal in his eyes before, or his voice, never felt it in his hands. Surely that was all Dean _Smith_ \- right?

And since when has Dean been with men? The thought was sand in Sam’s craw. That had been _experienced_ , back there – that had been practiced. He thought he knew his brother better than anyone, better than he knew himself; how long had Dean been sneaking off with people on both sides of the gender divide? When had he even found the time to do it? Growing up they were literally inseparable, barely ever apart – even when Dean snuck off with a skank Sam always knew exactly which skank, and where, and for how long. Dean never spent the night with any of them, always coming back to the motel, to Sam. And he usually teased his little brother with all the details, too. There was no way he was getting it on the down-low with dudes back then, not without Sam being aware of it. Right?

"How about here?"

Dean raised his eyebrows at the sign for the next highway motel they passed, and Sam nodded. “Looks fine,” he said.

They sat in silence for the next twenty miles.

Maybe it didn't mean anything. Not about himself, and not about Dean – the _real_ Dean, _his_ Dean. So Sam Wesson had been painfully turned on by something that had never appealed to Sam Winchester before. (Dean had had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep in his desperate moans – he'd come that way, bound, pinned, helpless, with the taste of come in his mouth). 

But now he could never un-know that. Never not know how it felt to give it all over, let himself be taken care of that way.

Never stop thinking about it. 

“Guess this place looks as good as any,” said Dean, pulling into the parking lot.

"Yep," said Sam.

"Alright," said Dean, reaching to rumple Sam's hair until he visibly remembered - froze - dropped his hand. "I'll park, you go get a room."

Sam couldn't take it. "Dean, man, I know you don't want to talk about this. I get it, I do - just ... can we make it not be weird between us? I can't - I can't get through all of this craziness without you having my back, you know?"

Too late, he noticed the pun there – Dean had _had his back alright_.

His brother sighed, rubbed both hands over his face. “Not now, Sammy. Just – go get us a room, okay?”

Sam opened the door slowly and climbed out. He knew that he was walking a little funny, and he both loved and hated it. It reminded him that it had happened, that it was real – he had had Dean’s dick, inside him, pushing him open. But he knew that seeing him limp was going to freak Dean out worse. He tried to straighten up and act normal, watching the impala pull away.

Sam waited until Dean was around the corner fish the emergency backup flask of cheep booze from his inside jacket pocket. He downed a healthy swig of burning rotgut, and then another.

And then another, and another, until it was gone.

\---

Dean drove slowly through the parking lot, unable to keep from watching his brother in the rearview window.

In some ways he loved how big Sam was. It was the product of his own hard work, after all; when they were kids Dean worked hard to get food into that kid. He remembered a lot of skipped meals to make sure there was enough. It was funny to think that back then he’d worried that Sam would grow up scrawny. The sight of his big, steady hands now was like a pat on the back to his teenage self.

There were practical advantages, too – big as he was, Sam had ended a lot of bar fights just by getting out of his chair and standing up straight. He was really good at intimidating surly local cops or reluctant witnesses, when he wanted to be. He could take a punch that would knock out anybody else, and it took twice the dose of any potion or poison to take him down. It definitely made him the best backup Dean could ask for when they’re going against something fugly.

Occasionally it was hilarious, like when Sam's feet hung off the end of a bed, or he couldn’t fit in regular human clothes.

On the whole, the drawbacks (it was a bitch if Sammy _did_ go down and Dean had to get them both to safety, and occasionally it twigged Dean’s manly ego to be shorter than his not-so-little brother) were outweighed by the benefits. Mostly Dean found it reassuring that Sam was substantial, like maybe he wouldn’t disappear so easily.

That other him had appreciated Sam’s size too. He liked having someone so powerful under his control. It had turned him on. The weird thing was, now Dean had this overlapping memory of himself, taking a good look at Sam’s stretched-out length, and thinking that’d be real pretty spread out over the arm of his couch.

Dean remembered how Sam went still – so still – when other-him got a hand over his mouth. Remembered the soft, wet shape of Sam’s lips mashed against his palm, the brush of teeth because he hadn’t managed to close his jaws before Dean got there, pinned him like that, open and wanting. Gotten so still and moaned into Dean’s muffling palm, just to hear the trapped, helpless sound of it.

That other-Dean had really done a number on him.

Dean himself hadn’t thought about that kind of stuff since before he sold his soul. When he had Hell breathing down his neck, it didn’t appeal – and definitely afterwards, no way. He couldn’t trust himself in either role. But Dean Smith hadn’t remembered any of that, hadn’t had any of those hang ups. So sure, that piece made sense. Embarrassing, hell yes, but understandable.

The part that didn't fit was Sam's reactions.

Dean _knew_ Sam – better than anyone, better than he knew himself. Knew Sam hung to the left, that he had a dark crinkly line of hair that started at his belly button and filled in as it went south, and that from the way he treated his rare one night stands, he was a control freak in and out of bed. And he _hated_ being tied up on a hunt gone wrong – Dean had untied him enough times that he surely would have noticed if little brother had popped a woodie or something, strung up by a monster.

Yeah, Sam was no sub.

And if maybe Dean's stupid ego got a boost from his little brother's worship - his strained, beautiful face as he tried so hard to prove that he was still Dean's baby boy - well, Dean had worked hard to make sure those secret thoughts _never_ saw the light of day, and he’d done a damned good job of it, too. And Sam – Sam couldn’t stand him most of the time, and he definitely wasn’t looking for … that kind of dynamic in bed.

So didn’t that prove that it was some weird angel mindfuck?

Dean parked and waited for Sam to come out of the motel office. Finally he did, crossing the parking lot towards the car. He was moving stiffly, and it took Dean a beat to realize that it was because his ass must be sore. Christ, No wonder he had been fidgeting in the car. Dean knew his own dick wasn’t small, and Sam – Christ – Sam had probably been a virgin, uh, back there.

Dean felt like shit. Like their lives weren’t Jerry Springer enough, He had popped his little brother’s ass-cherry.

He jumped out of the car to catch up with his brother. Sam was limping a lot more heavily now. Shit, he must really be hurting. Dean hurried to his brother’s side. “Here,” he muttered, taking the bag out of his hands. Whatever the reason, he never could never stand to see Sam struggling alone. It just went against every instinct.

Sam held up the key, wordless. It was right up the stairs from where he’d parked. “Alright, let’s unload later,” said Dean.

He didn’t like how quiet Sam was. Sam should have insisted that Dean let him go, stop fussing over him – but for once, he didn’t. He let Dean slide an arm around his waist, let himself be guided up the steps, let himself be shushed when he hissed at the jostle of climbing up them. Dean tried to take more of his weight.

“We'll get you inside, get you off of your feet,” said Dean. He tried to ease him up the last step and through the doorframe without seeming like he was shepherding him along. “Get you a heat pack, maybe.”

He tried not to notice Sam’s lean warmth pressed up against him. Given all the crap that had been thrown at them, the boys hadn’t exactly been close lately, even before this latest shit-show. If his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him, Sam was leaning into him too. Maybe he was injured worse than he was letting on? Well, Big Brother was on the case and would figure it out.

“Hurts,” Sam whined, as Dean steered him towards the bed.

“Hurts? What hurts, Sammy?” It wasn’t like him to complain. Just their luck for Sam to get injured from something as stupid as a ghost when they didn’t even remember how to hunt.

Dean let go of Sam to let him move to the bed, but his legs went out from under him and he sucked in a breath. “Sammy!”

“M’fine, m’fine – ” but he didn’t sound fine. Dean’s anxiety kicked it up another notch. Had something else happened? Angels, devils – what?

“Let me see,” said Dean, guiding him back to lie on the bed and picking up his feet. “C’mon, Sammy, let me take a look at you. You hurting somewhere?” He pushed Sam’s shirt up, ignoring his protests. Nothing looked wrong. Sam was barely cooperative while Dean wrestled him out of his flannel, tracing anxious hands over his ribs, his collarbone, his neck. “Where are you hurt, Sammy? Hey. Answer me. What hurts.”

“My butt,” said Sam sadly.

Oh Jesus. Dean groaned. He was close enough now to smell his brother’s breath: Sam was _drunk_.

 _Guess I can’t really blame him for that,_ thought Dean wistfully.

"Will you check it for me?" Sam was already opening his fly. He shucked his pants down to his knees and struggled to turn over, and it was easier for Dean to help him than try to stop him.

There were dark black bruises on Sam’s hips, four over his hipbones and a fifth in the divot over his butt. Five points in the exact shape of Dean’s hands. He could have fitted his fingers to the marks.

“Dean …”

“Shh, kiddo. Shh, you’re okay.” Dean reached out to rest a hand on Sam’s back, patting him lightly, gratified to see Sam relax under the touch. It still worked, after so long, with so much crap between them.

Unable to keep himself from checking – what if Sammy really was injured? – he slipped two fingers between Sam’s cheeks, gently pulling them apart to take a look. Sam whimpered, pathetic, but let him do it.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. His brother’s hole was shiny and pink – a little irritated looking, maybe - but there was no blood. That other Dean had taken pretty good care of him.

He pulled the sheet up. “It’s okay, Sammy. You’re fine. Just get some rest.”

“Tired,” agreed Sam, blinking. Dean couldn’t help a snort. Drunk Sam was always a little too close to Toddler Sam for him to ignore it.

“So go to sleep, dofus,” he said, patting his brother’s shoulder. “It’ll – it’ll all seem better in the morning, okay?”

“Mkay,” whispered Sam.

“Goodnight.”

He waited until he was pretty sure Sam was out, then took a couple healthy hits from his secret emergency flask.

He was going to need it.

\---

Sam woke up slowly. He suspected it was early, early morning – probably not even six yet.

He heard the shower start up. Dean must be awake already, if he had slept at all.

He half-remembered Dean leading him into the room last night, getting him laid out on the bed. It was kind of a blur.

The water pressure must have been good; Dean, stepping in, made the exact sound he made getting his dick sucked, which Sam was weirded out to be able to identify.

Sam squirmed on the bed, wanting to go back to sleep but unable to. He heard Dean humming tunelessly to himself, scrubbing down. He thought about Dean’s naked body, now that he had seen it in action. His brother was compact, but perfect. Every inch of him solid with muscle.

Finally the water cut off.

Sam wanted to roll on his side, but he was too tired and sore to bother. He shifted a little, making a soft noise of complaint.

He heard the bathroom open, even though there was no way Dean could have heard that. Sam kept his eyes closed tight. He heard the footfalls as Dean approached the bed; then felt Dean’s fingers pushing his hair back out of his face, looking him over. He was worried he might have a bit of a grimace and now it was too late to change it.

“I’m so sorry kiddo.” He felt lips pressed to the back of his hand; opened his eyes to see Dean, bent over him. He swallowed the instinctive urge to protest that rose whenever Dean referred to him in the diminutive (kid, little bro, and worst of all “baby boy”). “Sammy, I’m so – I’m so damned sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. You have to believe me. I know you’re – I know it’ll take time, and maybe you need some space – maybe we need a breather.”

Sam was only astonished that Dean had been the one to bring it up. He reached to close his fingers around Dean’s wrist – so much smaller than he expected, every time. It was easy to hold on. “No,” he said.

“Sam, he – he took advantage of you. You don’t – you didn’t want it, but he – ” Sam could hear what sounded like tears building in his voice.

Oh, okay. So while Sam slept, Dean had been up all night drinking and beating himself up over what had happened. Now he’d convinced himself this was all his fault, and that he’d probably damaged poor innocent Sammy beyond repair. If Sam wasn’t pretty hungover, he’d roll his eyes.

“Dean, c’mon, this was nobody's fault. And as crazy as it sounds – I don’t regret it.”

There was a long pause, presumably as Dean digested this. “Yeah?”

Sam took a deep breath. Time to man up and be brave. “Yeah. In fact, I’m kind of wishing – that we could do it again. If you wanted to."

There was dead silence. Sam's heartbeat turned frantic. "Uh, or if you don’t, that’s okay, I mean, I get it, I do - ”

Mercifully Dean cut him off. “Shh, Sammy.” 

Gentle hands circled Sam’s shoulders, pushing him back, and Sam went willingly, draping his arms up over his head. He was still naked from last night – Dean apparently hadn’t seen fit to put any pajamas on him – so there was nothing between them when Dean straddled his calves.

“Easy, baby,” said Dean, pushing Sam’s legs apart, bending himself over to nuzzle his naked dick. Sam moaned, biting his lip. It felt so good – Dean’s stubbly cheek against his sensitive inner thighs.

Sam couldn’t help wondering if Dean picked this activity as a form of restitution, given their activities the night before – some kind of attempt to make Sam feel in control again. If so, it was a miscalculation, because Sam didn’t feel at all dominant right now, on his back, with this legs open and Dean’s hands firm on his hips, pinning him down. He felt _incredible_ , but definitely not in control.

He smiled at the stray thought that Dean probably didn’t have any idea how to actually let Sam take over.

“That’s it, Sammy – lemme see. Lemme see you.” It was the voice Dean used when Sam was hurt, and it was automatic for Sam to obey it, a primal instinct that went back to the time before he could remember. Sam spread his thighs wide under Dean’s hand, hardly even embarrassed. “Want to make you feel good, little brother.”

Dean had no hesitation, slurping Sam’s cock down to the root. His hands were soft and gentle on his thighs, his ass, stroking and soothing. He swallowed Sam’s cock like he was born for it, which made Sam alternately insanely jealous (whose cock did Dean suck before his, because that kind of expertise took practice) and also deeply grateful.

Dean worked his tongue, and Sam hissed, his head dropping back, trying not to thrust his hips – which he couldn’t do anyway, because Dean had them cradled in his calloused hands. (It hadn’t made sense that Dean Smith’s hands were so rough. He was an office worker who moisturized and – unless Sam’s eyes were mistaken – got a monthly buff at the manicure salon).

“Shh, Sammy.” Sam realized that he was moaning. He took his own wrist between his teeth, remembering – with startling clarity – the feeling of Dean Smith’s firm hand clamped over Sam Wesson’s mouth.

He wouldn’t want this with anyone else, he thought muzzily, groaning as Dean lipped the tender insides of his thighs – he wouldn’t let anyone else have him this way, it was just Dean. The man who had always taken care of him every way … this was just one more thing.

“Touch my – touch my ass,” he begged. “Please, please Dean, please.”

Dean let him slide out. “Yeah?” he asked shyly. His voice didn’t sound anything like Dean Smith’s rough, confident timber.

“Give me a finger – inside of me,” begged Sam. “In my ass, Dean, please, just one.”

Dean rubbed one finger over Sam’s sore hole – and that was it, Sam was coming, down his brother’s throat, with Dean leaning forward to take more of it, swallow it down.

When it was over, Sam lay, dazed, listening to the soft, wet sounds of Dean jacking off. He reached for his brother - Sam had been raised a gentleman, after all - but Dean caught his hand and shifted his hips away, holding Sam’s hand while he worked himself to completion, spending over the sheets.

They’d have to share the other bed, thought Sam, smugly.

\---

“You’re not grossed out?” asked Sam later, lying on his belly while Dean stroked gentle hands over his hair, down his back, over his naked backside.

“By what, the gay thing, the kinky stuff, or the incest part.”

“Yeah, any of those, I guess,” said Sam, although he was thinking mostly of that last one.

“I dunno,” said Dean, scritching his fingers into Sam’s scalp. He seemed to know the soporific effects of the motion, if the fond smile on his face was any indication. “I guess I can live with it, if it means I get to have you like this.”

Sap, thought Sam, tenderly. He rolled over on his back, letting Dean press their bodies together.

Dean crawled up his body. “Can I kiss you, baby?” he asked, when their faces were together close enough that Sam could feel his soft exhales.

Sam nodded, wordless.

“He never kissed you properly, did he,” said Dean, stroking a thumb over Sam’s full lower lip. He sounded equal parts jealous and possessive. “He got to have you first in all those other ways, but this is just for me.”

“If he wasn’t you, then the man he knew wasn’t me,” Sam whispered back, transfixed by Dean’s soft mouth moving closer to his own. “So I’m all yours, Dean.”

Dean pressed their lips together, slow and sweet. Sam opened to accept his tongue, moaning quietly.

“All mine,” said Dean, when they broke apart. “My good boy, my Sammy, aren’t you baby?”

“Yours, big brother,” whispered Sam.

Screw that other life, the cushy job, the benefits, the normalcy. And screw the apocalypse, the angels, and the devil himself. All they needed was right here, the two of them, together. This was what was missing all along. This was their destiny.

Sam leaned up to kiss his brother again, humming.

It’s a beautiful life, he thought.


End file.
